


Dean Winchester's no good, very bad week and how it actually turns out to be pretty awesome, in the end

by Claire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, jealous!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-11
Updated: 2010-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean's life becomes the plot to a rom-com...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean doesn't really think about it when Sam's phone rings as the Impala is driving down the highway at least 20 over the limit. He's only half tuned into the conversation, the other half split being making a mental note to check out the banging under his baby's hood once they get to Bobby's and wondering if they're anywhere near a diner, because the only thing he's eaten since breakfast was a soft candy bar that Sam had produced from his backpack and Dean's starving.

There's a few more minutes of inane chatter, interspersed with some teasing comments and soft laughter, and if it wasn't for Sam's _Yeah, we'll see you when we get there, should only be another couple of hours,_ Dean would almost swear that it's a chick on the other end of the phone.

With a final goodbye, Sam snaps his phone shut and slides it into his pocket.

"How's Bobby," Dean asks, his hope at having seen a diner in the distance dying as they get closer and he realises it's long since closed.

"Huh?" Sam replies.

"Good to see you're putting all that learning to use, Sammy," Dean comments, ignoring the soft _bitch_ that comes from his brother. "Bobby," Dean repeats. "He got anything for us?" Dean's kind of hoping the answer's no. After the last month they've just had, he'll be just as happy to crash at Bobby's and sleep for a week.

"That wasn't Bobby, it was Cas," Sam answers, hand reaching out.

Dean doesn't even have to look as he slaps Sam's fingers away from the radio. "Cas?" Like he doesn't know who Cas is, like there are a hundred to chose from.

"Yeah, Cas," Sam nods, frowning as Dean turns up the radio.

Turning back to the road, Dean watches the black tarmac disappear into the distance in front of them. What was Cas doing ringing Sam instead of him? Unless he just assumed that Dean's driving. Which he is. But still. Castiel's _his_ angel, so it stands to reason that it's Dean he should be ringing.

"And what did Cas want?" Dean asks lightly, his attention half on Sam and half on Steve Walsh's voice coming from the Impala's speakers.

"Nothing specific, he was just wondering how the hunt went."

Dean can feel the frown on his face. Cas _never_ just calls to 'see how it went.' "Are you sure there was nothing else? Like maybe he was holding something back."

Sam snorts slightly as he answers. "Relax, Dean. He was just ringing to see how we were. No ulterior motives."

Dean doesn't reply.

_Tuesday_

It's actually sometime Tuesday morning when they finally pull into Bobby's, thanks to an accident, a tailback and a diversion that took them in the opposite direction of the cops that seemed to be paying a little too much attention to the cars that were passing them.

The house is dark when they get inside, a note on the kitchen table in Bobby's handwriting telling them to shut up, go to bed and not wake him up. They _paper, rock, scissors_ for the spare room, with Sam's face falling slightly when he realises he's on the couch that's about a foot too short for him. Dean debates on offering to go again, but it's not his fault Sam always resorts to _paper_ when he's tired, and Bobby's spare bed is a hell of a lot more comfortable than the torture device he keeps in his living room and laughingly calls a couch.

Leaving Sam staring pitifully at the couch, Dean makes his way up the stairs, carefully stepping over the third step from the top that has a habit of creaking loudly whenever someone stands on it. The bed's already made up when Dean gets into the room, and Dean's grateful because he can feel exhaustion creeping up on him like a sneaky bitch.

Fishing his cell out of his pocket, he checks quickly for any missed calls (none) or messages (still none) before putting it on the bedside cabinet that still has his initials scratched into the side from when he was 13.

Kicking off his boots and stripping off his jeans, he lets them stay where he drops them and crawls into the bed. There's a spring that's threatening to dig into his ass, but it's still comfier than the couch.

~

It's gone noon when Dean makes it downstairs, hair still damp from the shower he's just taken and grunting his thanks as Bobby holds out a coffee.

"What time did you boys get in last night?" Bobby's stirring his own coffee as he asks the question.

"Too damn late," Dean replies.

"How'd it go?"

Dean shrugs. "No problems," he says. The hunt had been pretty much find it, burn it, gank it. The only problem had been when Sam had nearly fallen into a freshly dug grave on the way out of the cemetery because he hadn't been watching where he was going.

Thinking of Sam makes Dean's eyes flick to the couch, where blankets are neatly folded over one of the arms.

"He's already up and out," Bobby says, following Dean's line of sight. "The angel came by and they headed off to the library."

Whoa, wait--

"Cas was here?"

Bobby nods. "Yep, turned up just after Sam woke up, hung around while Sam ate breakfast and then they went. Left a coupla hours ago now, so they should be back soon."

There's no way to phrase _So why didn't he come and see me?_ without sounding like a thirteen year old girl, so Dean stays silent as he heads to the fridge and pulls out everything Bobby has with the intention of throwing it all in a sandwich. And it's nothing to do with the fact that it's going to make him feel better after his angel ignored him in favour for his freaky-ass brother. It's just that he really fancies a sandwich. With everything in it.

Bastards.

~

He's just putting the plate in the sink with the rest of the dishes that no one's washed yet when the front door opens and Sam's laughter rings through the house.

"Dean, hey." Sam stops short when he sees Dean standing there.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel's voice is low and quiet, and it absolutely doesn't send shivers through Dean. It doesn't. Bobby just hasn't got the heating on. Even though it's the height of summer and it's 92 degrees out. In the shade.

"Have fun at the library?" Dean asks, thoroughly proud of himself for not tacking the _without me_ on the end that he can feel bubbling in him.

"It was very-- rewarding," Cas replies, glancing at Sam.

Yeah, Dean bets it was. "I'll be in the yard if anyone needs me."

"Dean?" Sam sounds confused.

"Junkers to fix, Sammy," Dean says. "We can't all spend the day with our nose buried in books." He doesn't say anything about the look Sam and Cas give each other as he walks past them and out of the house. Doesn't say anything about the fact that they're even giving each other looks now. It used to be Cas looking at Dean, head tilted in that _humans are weird_ way that he has. In no part of Dean's epic plan was there any mention of Cas looking at _Sam_.

And he knows in his head that he sounds like he's jealous, but he's not. Seriously. He has no jealousy whatsoever. He's not jealous of the fact that Cas rang Sam instead of him. He's not jealous of the fact that Cas decided to show up this morning and disappear off with Sam instead of sitting on the end of Dean's bed and watching him sleep. He's not jealous that Sam and Cas now, apparently, have _a look_. He's not jealous at all.

The broken-down old cars in the yard stare at him in a faintly disapproving way.

Well, fuck.

_Wednesday_

Cas doesn't turn up on Wednesday and Sam spends the day with his head buried in various books and checking stuff on the internet. Dean wonders if maybe they had a lover's tiff after he went outside to batter six shades of hell out of one of cars (which he totally only did because it needed to be taken apart and that was the most expedient way of doing it) and can't help but think that it serves Sam right if they did, the angel stealing little bastard.

_Thursday_

Dean spends Thursday telling himself that he should be a better brother. That if Sam and Castiel have found each other then he should support them, and not think up ways to make Cas realise how much of a whiny little bitch Sam is in comparison with Dean's awesomeness.

He should be happy for Sam. He should. Sam's been through a lot, losing Jess, losing Stanford, losing all hope of being normal on account being born a Winchester. He should go back in the house and tell Sam and Cas (who'd turned up, said _hello_ to Dean and then said something to Sam that had had them geeking out over a book written in a language Dean had never even heard of before and not noticing when he stomped out of the house to go and beat up some more cars) that he's happy for them.

He should tell them that it's great they've realised what they feel for each other and if Sammy wants to get an angelic freak-on, then it's okay with Dean.

He should go in there and tell them that right now.

And he will, just as soon as he's beaten the crap out of one more car.

_Friday_

He's not stomping out the house, he's _not_. He's merely walking more forcefully than he normally would. And he wouldn't even be doing that if it wasn't for the apparently epic love affair playing out in front of him.

 _I found this in Uzbekistan, Sam, and thought of you._ Because Sam's always the first thing that springs to mind when you find an old, smelly book just lying around.

 _Wow, thanks, Cas--_ And here, let me make goo-goo eyes at you in appreciation.

Dean had left the room at that point, he'd had to. Had grabbed a beer out of the fridge and come out to sit on the porch.

The condensation from the bottle runs over Dean's fingers and drips onto his jeans as he watches a couple of stray cats lounging on the hood of one of the trucks, completely unaware of the entanglements playing out in front of them. Dean wants Cas, who wants Sam, who's a dork. 

Putting the beer next to him, Dean drops his head into his hands. "Oh god, I've turned into Janeane Garofalo." Which, y'know, not _that_ bad, because he'd do Janeane Garofalo in a New York minute, but still--

"Dean?" Bobby's voice interrupts further thoughts on the rom-com that is his life.

"Out here."

The door creaks as it opens, and Dean banks down on the urge he always has to hold the door open for Bobby's wheelchair, the memory of the glare he'd received the first time he'd tried it still in his mind.

"You okay, boy?" Bobby asks, the look on his face telling Dean that he's pretty sure the answer is _no_.

"'M fine, Bobby."

Bobby grunts, accepting the lie. Dean can still hear the _idjit_ muttered his breath, though.

"You stayin' out here?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, could do with the air, y'know." It's not that he's hiding. It's not.

The _idjit_ this time, as Bobby rolls back into the house, is louder.

_Saturday_

Saturday is the day Sam finally snaps.

"Sit, Dean," he demands, as Dean tries to skirt past him and get out of the door.

"Sam, I--"

"Sit!" And wow, Sammy can really channel their Dad when he needs to.

Dean holds his hands up placatingly. "Okay, I'm sitting. Jeez."

"What the hell's been up with you this week, Dean? I've noticed it, Bobby's noticed it, _Castiel_ has noticed it, and you know how oblivious to human emotion he is."

"Not _that_ oblivious," Dean mutters.

"What was that?"

And, god, it really was like talking to Dad all over again.

"Dean--"

"Okay, fine, Christ--" He can do this, he's an adult. "I'm sorry if I've been a bit off all week; things on my mind, you know. Anyway, I'm really happy for you and Cas, and I'm leaving now." Because there are more cars outside that need a crowbar taken to them.

"Whoa, wait, what?" Because Sam's just looking confused.

"You and Cas," Dean repeats, exasperation colouring his tone. "Congrats, Sammy, the better man won." Even though he blatantly _didn't_.

"Me and Cas?" Sam says, drawing the words out more than Dean feels is really necessary

"Yes." That's not Dean's teeth gritting, really.

" _Me_ and _Cas_ \--" If Sam says those three words once more, Dean's going to hit him. "You think that me-- and _Cas_ \--" And, hey, it's great that _someone's_ finding this funny.

"Oh, come on, Sam. The ringing you, the going out to the library, the bringing you presents. Seriously, if one of you was a chick, you'd be going to prom together," Dean snaps.

"Oh, for god's sake," Sam retorts. " _This_ is why you've been a pissy little bitch all week? Because you thought I'd stolen your angel from you?"

And there's really no way for Dean to answer that without sounding like a teenage girl.

Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "I have no interest in Castiel, Dean."

"Why? Are you saying there's something wrong with him?" Because, yes, he can be weird, and has no social cues, and stares and touches _way_ past propriety, but he's _Cas_.

"There's nothing wrong with him," Sam says lightly. "Castiel is loyal, and good-looking, and a hell of a back-up to have in a fight, and he's learning a sense of humour."

"Yeah, so--"

Sam continues, ignoring Dean's interruption. "And he's totally head over heels in love with _you_."

"What?"

"Yes, he came with me to the library, and every second sentence out of his mouth was _Dean this--_ and _Dean that--_. He picked up the book he found in Uzbekistan because I'd mentioned it a few weeks ago as something Rufus had commented on when we'd been talking about demon-banishing spells."

Dean thinks he remembers the conversation with Rufus, but it's kind of fuzzy and in a haze of Jack Daniels.

"Cas got me the book because it may be useful." Sam's still talking. "Unlike the AC/DC Live in Japan bootleg that's in the Impala."

"Hold on, the '81 tour?" Because if it is, then that's way more epic than any demon-banishing book, and Dean totally would have noticed it. Except, Dean hasn't actually looked in the tape box in the Impala since they arrived.

"I have no idea!" From the look on Sam's face, it's obvious that he doesn't actually care, either. Heathen.

"It is indeed the 1981 tour, Dean."

Dean's turning towards the voice before the words are out. "Cas! When did you get here?" A thought crosses Dean's mind. "And how much of this conversation did you hear?"

"I heard enough of it, Dean."

Nuts. Enough to know that Dean's regressed to a 14 year old with girl-parts, then.

"Sam's right--"

Dean ignores the smug snort Sam gives at Cas's words.

"I got the book because it may contain something we need. I got the tape because-- because I thought you'd like it."

"I do! I will--" Just as soon as he listens to it, he thinks, as the words trails off into an awkward silence.

"Jesus, you're as bad as each other." Sam mutters from behind him, as he walks over and points at Dean. "Dean, Castiel rebelled against _Heaven_ for you, you moron." And then at Cas. "Castiel, Dean likes you more than he likes pie and porn. We all on the same page here?"

Apparently so, considering the blush that staining Cas's cheeks. What the hell, if Dean's going to embrace his inner teen, he may as well go all the way.

"Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Will you vanish on me if I kiss you?"

Castiel smiles softly. "No, Dean, I won't."

"At last," Sam comments. "Took you both long enough."

But Dean's too busy kissing his angel to reply.

_Sunday_

There's heat all down one side of Dean's body as he wakes up. Castiel is pressed against him, one leg thrown over Dean's and his head resting on Dean's shoulder. The sun's shining in through the window, casting patches of light and warmth, and Dean thinks the sounds he can hear is birds singing. Well, that and Sam shouting because he just set the toaster on fire. (At least, Dean's assuming he set fire to the toaster, although the _"fuck, fuck, **flames**!"_ could be about something else entirely.)

"Dean?" Cas's voice is heavy with sleep.

Running his fingertips over Cas's back, Dean grins as he feels the angel shiver under his touch. "Go back to sleep, Cas," he says softly. "We got time."


	2. Epilogue: Burnt Offerings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Sam and the toaster

It was, Sam believed, entirely Dean's fault. After all, if Dean hadn't kept Sam awake the entire night with his epic soundtrack of angel-deflowering (seriously, at one point Sam fully expected to hear _bow-chika-wow-wow_ blasting through the house) then he'd have been awake enough to notice that he'd set the timer on the toaster for 20 minutes, instead of 3.

As it was, the first thing he knew about it was a sudden smell of charcoal and the ominous sound of crackling coming from behind him, which made him turn around just in time to see the flames leaping from the toaster and attempting to climb the wall in Bobby's kitchen. (He didn't, however, and no matter what Dean may tell him later on, shriek like a girl at the sight of the fiery toaster of death. It was, instead, a very manly shriek that Sam would have been proud of, if he could have remembered it.)

Luckily, the dishwater from the night before was still in the sink, so it only took a few seconds to throw said flaming toaster into the water. (He even managed to unplug it first.) The toaster fizzled slightly as it sank into the water, taking the last of the bread to a watery grave.

Staring at the bubbles slowly popping on the surface of the water and wondering exactly when toast became a metaphor for his life, Sam just sighed and reached for the cereal.


End file.
